


I Feel The Light

by keeponshouting



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorder, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Rehabilitation, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeponshouting/pseuds/keeponshouting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras meets Grantaire in a rehabilitation clinic when being accused of having an eating disorder after a bad end to a serious hunger strike. Enjolras failed to see any redeeming qualities of the recovering drunk upon first meeting him, but when you’re stuck in a miserable hospital for so long, you can’t really hate the guy who hourly gives you pecks on the cheek and calls you beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for this post on tumblr [http://subjolrs.tumblr.com/post/49634832995/enjolras-x-grantaire-rehabilitation-au], from which I shamelessly stole the summary. I've no idea if anyone else ever wrote something for it but I felt like someone should. I don't know how often I'll update this, as the subject matter surrounding the story is very personal to me and therefore not always the easiest thing to write about, but it's been gnawing at me for over a month so I felt maybe it was time to let it out. The facility depicted is sort of a mash-up of places I've been or seen and I'm not likely to go into any details about the actual therapy unless absolutely necessary to the story. Just so you know. Now I'm done.

He doesn't remember how he got there. Had it been prison, he'd have understood it. Hospital, he'd had his share of that as well. His first twenty-four hours in the clinic, however, were nothing but white noise to him.  
  
His parents hadn't tried to stop them. Combeferre hadn't been able to reason. His best friend, a man with words like bullets, and no one had even stopped to listen.  
  
Attempted suicide by starvation, he heard later.  
  
He didn't even recall signing his own papers but they were there. He was allowed to see them. He had demanded to do so, once he had come back to himself. He had also demanded of them how they had thought that allowing him to sign his life away while obviously suffering from a concussion seemed like a good idea.  He had never quite received an answer.  
  
The papers, more contracts, had stated six months. When he spoke to Combeferre, the first time he was allowed outside contact, he was told that the alternative had been a trial where he would be railroaded into a likely sentence of more than that time in jail. They had weathered two months of such confinement once, the both of them, and the clinic, his friend had said, his voice soothing, would be far kinder than that to someone like him.  
  
The first time he met his therapist, the span of six months was again repeated. It was not, the man said, necessarily a release date so much as it was the time of reevaluation. If Enjolras would just speak up in their sessions, take part in the group, and follow the rules, things would go smoothly. What Enjolras heard there was "to get out, you just fake it," and he chafed but went back to his room.  Six months he could manage.  It shouldn't be hard.  The hard part was not getting angry.  
  
That first month, no one talked much outside of group sessions. Then again, few people seemed to talk much inside of them, either. It was all mostly the therapists doling out lessons and patients answering questions when asked.  Group was Tuesdays and Thursdays, all patients with eating disorders, and he offered them as little information as was allowed.  He felt out of place there, invading their spaces.  Saturday nights were group for his suite but those weren't quite as bad.  His one neighbor had made quick work of their acquaintanceship, possibly due to never asking why he was there, and he didn't mind listening to Courfeyrac's ramblings, as they did wonders for wasting the hour.  
  
Enjolras could never remember a time in his life when he had been so quiet himself but it was too frustrating to be pitied for words that were untrue. When he spoke, the therapists always smiled and nodded with that look in their eye. It was the same one that they gave to the patients with real problems, the ones who argued through pharmacy windows, the ones who weren't allowed to shower alone, the one who fought until they were sedated or, sometimes, strapped to their beds at night. It was a look that held doubt. It said they'd never recover. It was a look that he hated more with each passing day.

  
He has been in the clinic for exactly thirty days when everything shifts.  He has seen many come and a few patients go.  He knows the names of everyone he is expected to talk to as well as all of the staff no one wants to see.  He sometimes chats with the nurses when the silence gets too much for him and his suitemates are busy and he's made no progress of any kind in his therapy.  
  
One of the five rooms in the suite has been empty for a week now and a janitor, a man named Feuilly, has just finished cleaning it, as is done whenever old patients leave or new patients arrive.  It isn't a terribly interesting activity to watch but his neighbors are watching the whole affair all the same.  He can't blame them.  They are bored, all is quiet, and outside there is rain.  
  
"So," small and sleepy, curled like a cat in the window, one of the young men mumbles under half-lidded eyes, "do you know who our new friend is or are we stuck waiting?"  
  
Hooking his broom to his cart, Feuilly smiles and pats the boy's head.  "They don't tell me who's coming and you know it, kiddo."  Still, he glances down the hall before leaning in, his voice low, "But I'm pretty sure I saw a familiar face coming in just before I got sent up here so..."  He shrugs.  
  
That burns all the sleep straight off of Jehan's freckled face as the boy sits up with a start.  "Really?  Is he back already?  He's only been gone two months this time!"  
  
Upside down in an armchair, Courfeyrac hums.  "I'm pretty sure it was only a month and a half."  
  
Enjolras glances up from his book, arching a brow.  
  
"Oh!"  Jehan catches his gaze and perks up a bit, swinging his legs down and standing to stretch.  "You've never met R before, have you?"  
  
The question makes Feuilly shake his head and Courfeyrac cackle.  
  
"I'll leave you boys to give the usual warnings," the janitor tells them.  "I've got real work to do but I'll check back before I leave, just to be sure."  
  
Still chuckling, Courfeyrac rolls himself down to the floor.  
  
"Oh," Jehan says again, flinging himself into the vacated seat, "R's lovely, really, most of the time."  
  
"No he's not," is Courf's answer, and Enjolras frowns, not quite understanding.  Jehan makes a face but Courfeyrac just goes on.  "He's a great guy - don't get me wrong - but this is, you know, rehab.  First few weeks, his mood's always got more swings than a playground and he's medicated to the gills for it, so he's mostly just a total basket case.  You'll see Jehan's lovely R right after he's admitted and then he'll dry out and you'll never know which him you're dealing with until the withdrawal settles down."  
  
That's when Marius wanders in and asks, "Who are we talking about?"  
  
A peel of laughter down the hall is his answer.  
  
This new stranger, this R, barges in like a whirlwind, with an orderly following not far behind.  Bahorel stays in the entrance, though, a good sign his charge is quite harmless, and Enjolras notes that the larger man is rolling his eyes.  Still too close to the hallway to have any dreams of escaping, Marius squaks as he's picked up in a crushing bear hug.  Jehan is giggling and Courfeyrac's grinning and Enjolras is amused but unsure what to think.  
  
"Marius!  Sweetheart.  What's the news on your love life?"  R is built like a boxer - compact, scruffy, and strong - and he looks like he hasn't bathed in a week.  "Jehan!  My darling, Jehan.  How's that orchid I got you?  Still thriving, I'd expect."  He moves around the room with more grace than any drunk should, giving the slighter man a tight hug and a peck on the cheek.  "Courfeyrac!  I see that smarmy grin, you dumb bastard."  They embrace like brothers and Enjolras suddenly feels very out of place.  
  
Then those strange eyes are on him.  
  
"Well, hello there, beautiful."  That smile is sly and discomfitting and makes him wish he weren't curled on the sofa.  There's an inherent offer of space which R happily fills.  Sat too close, scent of whiskey, the drunk practically purrs, "So I'm Grantaire and you are?"  
  
He leans back, schools his features, clears his throat.  "Enjolras."  
  
Grantaire's focus keeps him pinned in his place until Jehan can't hold back his giggles.


	2. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With addictions, successfully combating withdrawal is often the first step to reaching recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading. I don't know how much of this fic is or is going to be precisely what anyone's expecting but I do at least know where I want it to go. Someone mentioned being confused as to who was where in all of this, so aside from simply hoping you enjoy the movement of the story, I'm hoping some of that confusion is cleared up after this chapter as well.

A few days in, that first evening with Grantaire’s wild entrance seems like something of a false start.  Enjolras had excused himself to his room once the newcomer’s attention had been properly diverted by the promise of catching up with old friends and, though he hadn’t been able to fully concentrate on his reading, the privacy had been enough to help Enjolras relax again. He wasn’t allowed to close his door – that was a privilege he had yet to earn via perceived progress in his therapy – but each man’s room was his own space and none of them had ever disrespected that.  To do so would be to forfeit one’s own small solace as well.

The morning after Grantaire’s arrival, no one had seen the man until after breakfast.  Jehan had been poking his head into R’s bedroom when Enjolras had come out of his own and had informed them that their friend seemed to still be sleeping.  They’d made their way down to the cafeteria, eaten their prescribed meals, complained (on Enjolras’s part, anyway) about still being denied a morning coffee, and gone back to their suite to enjoy what free time they had before their days were meant to truly begin.  Grantaire, they had discovered, had not moved from his place in his bed, just a lump buried under a thin sheet and coarse blanket, hunch of his shoulders expanding and contracting as he breathed.  When Enjolras had asked if it was normal, Courfeyrac and Marius had both looked to Jehan and Jehan had just looked sad.

“They’ll send somebody in to wake him once we’re all in our morning therapy.”  He’d paused then, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jumper.  “Bossuet’s working this morning, isn’t he?  R likes Bossuet.  He’ll be ok.”

When they’d all met back in their suite before lunch, his bed had been a mess but Grantaire had been nowhere to be seen.  Marius had quietly noted that he hadn’t seen Bossuet in the nurses’ station, either, even though the on-call list for their floor had offered his name.  They hadn’t seen R at lunch, all afternoon, or even at dinner.  Bossuet’s name had been taken off the list and been replaced by Bahorel.  Feuilly had made his cleaning rounds and shot down any questions.  Even janitors had to be given clearance in order to work near certain areas and sign confidentiality agreements in order to work at all.

Even Enjolras, uncomfortably aware of how edgy his companions were, hadn’t been able to sleep until Bahorel had appeared, all but carrying an apparently sedated Grantaire back to his bed.

Since then, the suite has seen more of the nurses and other staff than it did the month previous.  For Enjolras, that part isn’t particularly bothersome most of the time, though he does prefer certain members of staff over others.  He understands immediately why Bahorel and Bossuet are his suitemates’ favorites.  Bahorel is built solid and formidable but has an air of mischief about him that makes his confidence easy to trust and his company easy to enjoy.  It’s no wonder that he’s generally the first to show when someone hits the panic button, taking long strides, calm and collected, as soothing in voice as his body is strong.   Bossuet, meanwhile, is tremendously cheerful, no matter how many times he falls out of his chair when startled awake during night shifts or how often he kicks a doorframe in his hurry to tend to patients’ needs.  He takes the brunt of every blow, verbal or physical, with a truly caring demeanor and rarely wavers behind that quiet smile.

Sometimes Joly comes up to their suite now, which was a bit odd at first but has grown more comfortable with regularity.  Before, upon meeting him for monitored check-ups in the examination rooms downstairs, Enjolras had felt that the physician never seemed particularly genuine when he spoke or even smiled.  Looking back on that judgment, the thought arises that it is a matter of distraction, maybe, discomfort with the environment in which he’s working, though even in his most preoccupied moments Joly at least seems to truly and sincerely care for the well-being of his patients, which is something Enjolras cannot say for the doctors treating the less physical aspects of their situations.  When Joly comes to his patient rather than the other way around, however, something seems to change in the man.  His smile is brighter, his behavior more friendly.  He’s still a doctor, first and foremost, but he’s a much more personable one when he appears outside of narrow halls and sterile rooms.  It makes visiting him for those early morning weigh-ins and odd appointments much easier when he’s spent enough time sharing small talk elsewhere to actually look up from his clipboard and smile upon noting signs of physical progress.

It’s the morning of day four when Enjolras actually witnesses the reason for keeping Grantaire so secluded.  Outside it’s warm and sunny and Jehan had dragged them all outside in their free time after breakfast but Enjolras had excused himself to acquire a new book.  He’s not surprised to hear someone moving when he gets upstairs and he isn’t entirely certain what about the situation convinces him that he should make sure that R is all right.  The man isn’t even visible from where Enjolras stands, uncomfortable, knocking at the doorframe, but the sudden gasp and sob are more than enough to give his position away.

Enjolras tenses, grips the book in one hand until his knuckles are white and leans forward without thinking to place his other hand on the doorknob.  He frowns, brow furrowed, craning his neck.  On the floor, beyond the bed, he catches sight of fingers tangled in damp hair just over the edge of the mattress.  First he chokes a little on discomfort and uncertainty but eventually Enjolras manages to clear his throat.  “Ah.  Grantaire?”  There’s a catch of breath, a twitch of stiffness, then a more convulsive sob.  “G— Grantaire, do you—need something?”

The other man just lets out a whining groan.

A glance back into the corridor tells Enjolras that the station is empty.  There’s only ever one nurse on-call during these times of the day.  Bossuet must be busy elsewhere so Enjolras grits his teeth and tentatively sinks down.  In a squat, he peers under the bed, as he’s seen the nurses do before, and he can see feet pulled in close, bent elbows visible, the ends of slightly too long hair.  He can imagine R clutching at his own skull, pressing his forehead to his knees.  It’s a position that Enjolras himself has been in often enough to make it intimately familiar and he sighs and sets his book down in order to rub at his face.  One thing this place has made him start realizing is that, once he’s out, it might be best to find proper therapy.  Here it’s pointless.  Here they focus on all the wrong things.

“Grantaire,” he tries again and the figure twitches, whimpers.  “Look, Bossuet’s not in the station or I’d have him here already to deal with this but—  R, do you need me to call someone?”  He shouldn’t be asking, he thinks.  He should just do it.

The motion of R’s hand as it drops to the floor can’t even be described as shaking – that word is too weak.

When Enjolras stands back up, his book left at his feet, he feels like he’s buzzing, full of sudden, restless energy.  It’s similar to the feeling he’s had at the peak of some rallies, closer to that which comes upon seeing someone take an unearned blow.  Violence is never the part that bothers him but an unnecessary attack on those who’ve done nothing to deserve such base suffering stokes his fury like a fire met with pure oxygen.  Why the sight of an addict suffering what is so obviously withdrawal symptoms he doesn’t know but he takes a step back, breathes in deep, and tries to settle his mind.  Each room is equipped with a call button – a panic button – and he uses his own rather than break the unspoken privacy laws of their suite.  Then he stands in R’s door and waits for help to arrive.

Bossuet comes first, mutters something into his radio, and carefully maneuvers Enjolras into a seat.  They talk, cursory chatter, discussing what’s happened, until Joly arrives with his medical team.  Enjolras vaguely recognizes a few of their faces, watches through their ever-moving layers of limbs as they move around in hazy patterns.  Grantaire’s uncurled now and Joly’s voice carries, a comforting murmur interrupted by sharp commands.

Enjolras rubs his hands at his face and occasionally peers through his fingers to see if anything has changed.  He’s not really sure how long it takes before something does.  Bossuet’s hand is a calming weight on his shoulder and the anger subsides, though he still feels too restless.  It’s always anger, he remembers Combeferre once noting, because anger is a more comfortable reaction to him than fear.

They get Grantaire onto the bed eventually, curled up again though less tightly, a sweating, mumbling, trembling mess.  Joly is quietly talking about heart rates and fevers and one of the nurses is taking down notes.  Bossuet squeezes Enjolras’s shoulder before standing and suddenly three other forms take his place.

“What happened?”  It’s Marius, collapsing beside him, eyes wide and worried and nervously flitting.

Courfeyrac and Jehan sit on opposite arms of the chair Bossuet has vacated, the former watching Enjolras while the latter answers, quietly, eyes on Grantaire’s room.  “Probably another DT.  I think he had one yesterday, too.  Kind of looked like almost a seizure?  I don't know but it didn’t look as bad as this.”

Marius turns his stare on the poet.  “Oh god, is that normal?”

Courfeyrac kicks his friend’s shin with a hushing sound and furrows his brow at Enjolras instead.  “You all right?  Marius and Jehan both fell asleep in the garden and I just totally lost track of time until one of the nurses came out to say you had a phone call from—”

Enjolras closes his eyes and lets his face slide back into his hands.  “Combeferre.  I'll have to call him later but, yes, I’m fine.”  They don’t need to know any more than that, really.

In the end, Joly makes the decision to take Grantaire downstairs for monitoring.  “If I’d been informed of how severe his attack was yesterday,” he tells them, eyes flashing, coldly angry, “I’d have taken him down before this.”

It’s Bossuet who assures them all before he leaves at the end of his shift that they aren’t the ones Joly is blaming.  The attending physician the day before had made mistakes and would be held properly accountable for all he had and had not done.  Looking after each other, while a basic part of their therapy, is not a part of their jobs here, as patients.

 

They don’t see Grantaire again for almost a week, though they are told on multiple occasions that he’s getting better.  In therapy, the topic comes up for all four of them repeatedly and Enjolras silently agrees as Courfeyrac scoffs later “as if they actually care.”  Not that the needling nature of the questions stops Enjolras himself from talking about it in his sessions.  If it makes his psychiatrist feel like they’re getting something done, he’ll talk about that one specific instance of horrid uselessness forever.  At least then he can vomit up half-truths for the man to eagerly swallow rather than trading venom and disappointment through silence and steely glares.

When he comes back, R is quieter and he looks tired and almost frail.  He is not all vibrant energy and force of nature but flesh and bone and bruising and the others tread lightly and take care.  Their hugs aren’t as tight as they were the last time, though they relax when he smiles because that, at least, is still bright.  They pull chairs around and sit him down at one end of the sofa and he sinks in with a sigh before gently kicking Enjolras in the knee.  His smile upon gaining attention for that is more a grin gone weak and lopsided but it lights up again when Enjolras rolls his eyes and swats at the offending feet.  Jehan beams at them, says something about making “fast friends” now, and they talk about everything and nothing until Courfeyrac and Marius’s wrestling match begins.

Later, when Bahorel calls their lights out, Enjolras trades what have become their usual goodnights as he finishes his chapter and carefully marks his place.  On his feet, to his door – it’s routine.  Except the difference tonight has a hand at his elbow and Enjolras is perhaps too startled by the contact, then he turns.  This grin – not bright mischief, not discomfort – is apologetic and Enjolras feels his head tilt in tired question.

Grantaire looks oddly nervous as he clears his throat.  “So I just—  Well, you know.  I didn’t really get a chance to say thank you or anything when stuff happened so…”

It gives Enjolras a moment’s pause, the way the words trail there, and they stand through beats of silence before he manages the faintest twitch of a smile.  “Maybe not but, to be fair, you weren’t really in any position to say much of anything.”

“Funny.”  The statement is dry, like kindling for a fire, and the grin that comes along with it is the flame.  “Seriously, though, you kind of saved me.”

“Mm.  Bossuet would have found you.”

“But he didn’t.  You did.”

The weight of the gratitude hangs clear and far too heavy and yet Enjolras still tries his best to shrug it off.

It makes Grantaire snort, his brow furrowed, face a twist of something unnamed, though it’s paired with amusement.  “You’re weird, you know that?  I just, you know, want to say thank you.”

There’s another shrug.  “It’s no more than any decent person would have done.”

“Maybe,” R half concedes, “but we’re not all decent people, are we?”  He pauses before adding, “Unless you’re, like, a Buddhist monk or something and it’s against your religion or whatever to admit that the world is pretty much full of assholes.  In which case, just pretend I never said anything.”

Enjolras blinks, allowing himself a moment of drowsy confusion before shaking his head.  “I’m pretty sure Buddhism is a bit more complicated than that, actually.”

Grantaire just snorts again.  “Pretty sure it is, yeah, but whatever.”  Then he leans in and drops a quick kiss against a startled cheek.  “Thanks anyway.”  And he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any comments to make that you feel uncomfortable leaving publicly, feel free to drop them in my ask box on tumblr: http://keeponshouting.tumblr.com/ask


End file.
